On the Monday before Christmas, the black dog came around again and I couldn’t get out of bed. I lay all day staring at the wall. Depression has little to do with sadness, I think. It’s blankness. The same thing happened to me about 15 years ago. I was like a prize gonk for the four or five weeks it took for the Prozac to work, which it did, and since then I’ve managed to foster and sustain all the illusions I need to keep me buoyant.
I couldn’t get out of bed on the Tuesday either. I was adrift in outer space. But I knew I must pick up the phone and make an appointment to see someone with a prescribing pad. It’s easier said than done, though, getting an appointment to see a doctor during the festive period.
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